Snippets
by writer-reader-traveller
Summary: A collection of miscellaneous stories surrounding him and her. Just the two of them.
1. Stargazing

Her eyes followed the perfect line of his arm, his hand, his finger, the perfect invisible string that led to his favorite star. It was nothing spectacular, really; it was one of those minor burning orbs that filled the universe, but one that still gave way to the endless wonders that lay forgotten and untouched by years past.

Currently, it was a brilliant white-gold. _But no_ , she realized. _It's more than that. It's an endless range of colors._ Sapphire blues, blood reds, crystalline greens. The colors were flashing before her with no end in sight. It was as though several billion fireworks of the same hue were all bursting simultaneously. At once she was taken by the beauty of the untainted night sky, letting herself gaze for hours upon hours. She would just stare and watch the constellations float by. Her mouth parted in silent wonder as she finally understood the momentous impact the universe had on the whole of human race; how one infinitesimal burning star could be the source of a lifetime of curiosity. And, oh, she couldn't fathom the thought of how she used to view the skies. Boredom and dissatisfaction had become the standard association, in her mind, to the stars and nothing would ever be able to change that. Except for now.

...

He would catch her out of the corner of his eye as she sat on the decades-old quilt: legs stretched forward, arms braced behind her, head tilted towards the heavens. Her feet tapped against each other to a silent jingle only she knew.

He was the one who had begged and begged to show her the skies, until one evening, she had agreed. The hot chocolate was brought about, the blanket was laid, the telescope was assembled (though they never once touched the device; it stood isolated and forgotten, favored by the less-technical human eye). Admitting to him only shortly after their arrival that she had very limited knowledge about the constellations led him to accept the challenge of teaching her everything he knew - which, by scientific standards, was hardly enough to gain him any recognition, but for tonight it was all they needed.

Laying down side-by-side, he pointed to a star and, with his finger, traced the microscopic thread that held the constellation together. He had told her the stories of old when in the early days of exploration, sailors would use that one, insignificant point to track their way around the globe. To him the constellation had became an icon, a source of solitude just like it had been for thousands of dreamers before him. She had "oohed" and "aahed" in the appropriate places and teased him for his fascination, but he did not care. The fact that he had finally gotten to show her the one thing that meant the most to him in the world was all that matter in that moment.

And by the end of the night, her head was resting sleepily on his shoulder and her eyes went back to that wonderful, invisible line.


	2. Coffee From Foreign Places

The man glanced in her direction, cringing suddenly as the object was placed in front of him. He couldn't escape it, not this time. The smell lingered purposely around him, gagging him.

Coffee. Goddamn coffee.

He looked at it dead on. It disgusted him with its creamy whites and dirt browns; oh, and he particularly hated the taste. The taste was the worst thing. It left a disgusting, bitter feeling in his mouth that made him want to inappropriately spit it back in the mug and send it back to the espresso machine; he wanted to beg the machine to accept the saliva-filled mixture, to get it out of his sight.

She giggled behind her cup and looked at him softly, only her eyes were visible above the pure-white rim. This spiteful beverage was a treasure hunt that she was eager to follow. Whether it was the mud-like consistency of the Turkish coffees or the foam-coated lattes of Germany, she loved them all. It was the addiction; she was the willing participant.

And he had unfortunately been dragged along to every one of these stops of coffee-hell.

"Try it," she coaxed. "A little sip. You might actually find you like this espresso."

"Just like I enjoyed the taste of all the lattes and cappuccinos and - what are they called? Ah, yes, those despicable macchiatos." He winked, a grin breaking through his faux grimace.

She stuck her tongue out in a very unlady-like manner and laughed in an ever-so-elegant way that managed to catch the attention of those outside the cafe. Romans and tourists alike glanced at them: those subtle glances that were always delivered with a knowing twinkle in the eye and a subtle smile on the lips; although the man and the woman were well aware of the reactions of others, they had yet to notice the attention surrounding them.

She smiled at him and glanced down at his order before meeting his eyes once more. He knew he couldn't bare the taste of any coffee and he knew he couldn't deny her request. With valiant effort he took the steaming mug in his hands and drank.

"That," He swallowed dramatically. "Was absolutely _horrific_."

The cup sat haphazardly on the saucer, a drip of brownish liquid rolled quietly down the side. His fingers drummed the handle slowly and he contemplated, once again, how she managed to convince him into consuming this "drink". It was a game, really; she would order two of whatever coffee she pleased, he would have a little sip and declare how gross it is, and then she would swoop in and take the remainder of his.  
Her snort echoed her in mug as she tried to contain her laughter. "Okay, okay, hand it over," she said, still giggling. That giggled transformed into full-out laughter as he pushed the coffee away with just one finger pressed slightly on the saucer; his face a mask of pure distaste.

"You know," she tried to say between breaths. "It's not gonna kill you."

He only shook his head and wondered how she could enjoy such disgusting _things_.


	3. Candids

*Snap.*

*Snap. Snap.*

Her finger wouldn't lift off of the trigger. She would eventually capture the right photo - but it had to be perfect. No. It didn't have to be _perfect_. Not in the way that the world saw _perfect_ \- not in the way that the peoples across the nations saw _perfect_ , but how she saw _perfect_.

Sunlight reaching it's early morning rays around his curls. The profile of his face silhouetted against the roaring of the waves. The grains of sand sticking out against his dark skin. His eyelashes laying on the tops of his cheeks so delicately as though they had been sculpted out of the finest silks.

 _Her perfect_.

Darkness resting itself gently against his face. The scar on his cheek prominently shining in the sun. The lopsidedness of his mouth drawing her closer. The uneven cut of his bangs calling for her fingers to run through its strands.

 _Perfect._

*Snap. Snap*

*Snap.*

…

…

Sometime later he would wake to find her laying atop the towel beside him. The polaroid camera still gripped securely in her right hand, index finger position perfectly to take the next picture. Around her, the freshly printed photos littered the sand, covered the towel, gathered between them; some of the edges were already crumpled. He saw himself reflected back in his eyes.

He would later decide that his favorite one was of the picture he took of her. Perfectly curled beside him. Light hair laid out behind her, as if the wind had swooped in in those few seconds it took him to sit up, and brushed it away from her face.

The three freckles on both of her cheeks lightened by the golden rays.

 _Perfect_.


End file.
